


Happily ever...and then some PART II

by ItsSweaterWeather



Series: Lucky F**king Couple [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, HEA fluff, M/M, Molly POV, Molly in vintage thrift, Post-TFP, Post-The Final Problem, Romantic Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform, basically all the fluff, basically an excuse for London location porn - sorry not sorry, just a lot of linguistic foreplay - sorry not sorry, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-04 22:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14030277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: Different locations. More of the same - much more. I couldn't stop writing this (mostly) unedited fluffity fluff. It helps if you read the first installment of "Happily ever... and then some" before joining up with the gang in London. For those of you that have, we'll get back to that ceremony in Sussex in a moment. A brief diversion, first, to find out how they all got to the country in the first place.He rolled his eyes. "Taking public transit is like threading a suture needle with catgut, Molly. Sure, you could do it. But why, when the superior option is nylon?" he reasoned. Not waiting for her fiscally responsible rejoinder, Sherlock added, "Actually, to clarify, nylon for skin. Braided silk for neurosurgical stitches. Of course, if you're having vascular surgery, polyester thread is your best bet. Oh! And we haven't even touched on the myriad uses for steel sutures. You know, I wrote a blog on the varying tensile strengths of mono- and multi-filament steel sutures..."





	Happily ever...and then some PART II

### Specifically, Mayfair and Marylebone. Less specifically, a random Thursday in May.

Greg had thrown all in for Sussex over dinner.

The pint-drinking, football loving D.I. had an unshakeable optimism surrounding weddings and a heretofore unknown fascination with posh ceremonies. In spite of his humble upbringing in a north country coal town, Lestrade championed morning suits and expensive frog water. In spite of his messy divorce, he cheered for lush, flowered bowers and afternoons on manor lawns. To that end, he fired his opening salvo for an autumn wedding in Sussex as bemused waiters served the second course.

His unwavering position jeopardized his spot on the planning committee. It also nearly cost him a place in the groom's heart. Or was it the bride's?

He didn't mind though, bless him. After all his heartbreak, Greg still put his faith in the future. And he believed that a wedding at Musgrave Hall would exorcise the sorrows of the past.

## * * *

**Time: In the early evening.**

Thursday had it in for her.

And it had coerced the clock hanging in St. Bart's pathology office to play henchman. The hateful thing sneered down at Molly, tsk-tsking with each sweep of its minute hand. She tried ignoring its incessant judgment to no avail. At one point, she lobbed an unopened bag of crisps at its somber moon face. Missed wide. She swore that the damn thing ducked to avoid the projectile.

Silly to wage open war on an inanimate object, though. So she decided to let bygones be bygones between them. Hardly the clock's fault that two lab technicians had called off. Their absence had delayed test results and made a mockery of her well-choreographed autopsy schedule. Now she was picking up pieces that could've been left for someone else.

 _Should've_ been left to someone else. Molly's dedication to her profession and a stand-off with the clock had already landed her in hot water with the world's only consulting detective once today.

"Best not be late _twice_ in one day," she mumbled, vowing to wrap things up. Soon. _Ish._

Ten minutes stretched into twenty. Then thirty. When she finally looked up, the damn clock had moved 5:15 pm to 6:57 pm.

The day and the clock were in cahoots.

"Shit!" Molly exploded from her chair and shoved casework into a drawer. She grabbed the dress from where it hung behind the door, taking care not to snag the cotton's fine weave in her haste.

The time for a more appropriate dressing room had long passed. Molly ducked behind the cabinets and shucked off her lab coat and cardi. After she slipped the dress on, she shimmied out of her trousers and kicked them under the desk. A few impressive contortions later, she fished her blouse out from under the ballet neckline and tossed it after her trousers.

Her transformation from Miss Hooper, serious pathologist, to _Mol-ly Hoo-pah,_ the woman who's name dripped, thick as honey, from Sherlock's lips, was almost complete. She stepped into a modestly full petticoat, adding the 'flare' to her vintage fit-and-flare outfit. She smoothed the dress's sheer lace overlay with her palms until it followed the swish of blush pink fabric underneath.

All in all, the quick change took her two minutes, one full minute faster than when she'd performed the maneuver earlier in the afternoon. She grabbed her purse and slipped a little velvet box into the same Pret-a-Manger bag that held her heels.

Then she bolted out the door.

Molly caught a glimpse of herself in a storefront window on the sprint from Bart's to the Tube; a vision in her 1950's dress - and her work clogs.

The clogs were a practical if unfashionable choice for the trip. She had a furious bit of street-side rushing to do if she hoped to make the restaurant on time and thwart a repeat of Sherlock's midday grumbling...

 

## * * *

**Time: Midday, some five hours earlier.**

Molly exited the station, turned right, and stopped. Force of habit. This afternoon's appointment lie in the opposite direction of 221b. She rebooted and made her way to the busy thoroughfare at the southern end of Baker Street. There she found herself at odds with a crush of tourists. People mowed toward her, lining up for the Big Red Bus tours nearby. She pressed on for the columned building two blocks away; a salmon swimming upstream - in heels.

Anticipation quickened her steps across Gloucester. 

Midday sun bounced off the building's twin stone lions, lounging beside the Marylebone Road. They seemed unimpressed with her arrival. The same bright rays also shone a spotlight on the rather irritated face watching for her. Waiting for her.

But oh... that face! Molly could not foresee a day when she wouldn't enjoy waking up to that face. On another man, the sharp architecture of his bones, the stretch of his pale skin, and the directness of his gaze would not have made for such a pleasing combination. On another man, those same features would've frightened.

On Sherlock though, they stayed Molly's pulse and stole her heart. 

He watched her approach from under bristly lashes, not saying a word until she'd come toe to toe with him. "You're late," he said, staring down at her, luminous blue eyes alert. His voice buzzed her hairline, smooth and tightly controlled. Like a swarm of bees.

In the few months since he'd uttered his first  _I love yous,_ she'd come to recognize that tone as one of concern for her safety - and anxiety that she'd back out.

"By five minutes!" she soothed. "Impossible to catch a train."

He looked dubious. "You had three lines to choose from. And it's afternoon. Not rush hour."

"Tell that to TfL." She laughed and motioned toward the stone steps of the stately white building. "Shall we?"

He beat the laptop he held lightly on his thigh and considered her. After a long moment, "You lost track of time."

"Maybe," she shrugged, ducking round him quick as a sparrow.

"Maybe?  _Definitely,"_ he complained. "Why is it that you always lose track of time but never of work?"

Molly spun round to face him. "Ha!" she smirked, enjoying the rare advantage in height. "Says the man who loses whole days in monk-like service to _his_ work."

She planted a chaste peck on the tip of his nose. Sherlock grabbed her around the waist before she could scoot beyond his reach. He pried her lips apart, his tongue impulsive and needy. His body softened against hers the moment she reciprocated, leaning into the full contact of her embrace. 

"Next time," he breathed between kisses, "take a cab."

Molly tugged on the curl at the nape of his neck. He groaned into her mouth. "Nonsense. London has one of the best transit systems in the world."

Sherlock pulled away. "You just said you couldn't catch a train. At midday. From Bart's to Marylebone."

"I um, well...yes. And no... Sherlock! The time. We're going to be late!"

One dark brow shot up. " _Mol-ly_... I don't understand your reluctance to spend money - _my_ money. I told you I'd pay for the taxis. And anything else you want."

"I don't _want,_ " she frowned, pulling him through the massive wood doors. "I make my living, Sherlock. I pay for _my_ flat and _my_ clothes and _my_ holidays -"

"I know the argument by heart, Molly. It's just a taxi or two -"

She cut him off, not wanting to trod over this well-worn path again, "Or ten, or twenty, or a thousand." She exhaled. "My problem isn't the train or the bus -"

"No. Apparently, it's my money," he grumbled and stalked ahead of her.

Molly stopped short. She crossed her arms and waited. Sherlock shoved the laptop under his armpit and thrust both hands deep into his trouser pockets. Then he sauntered back. He stood beside her and, without removing his hands from his pockets, offered his arm to her. She took it. "My problem," she reiterated, "is time management. And mad love for a man with an unfettered taxi habit."

He rolled his eyes. "Taking public transit is like threading a suture needle with catgut, Molly. Sure, you _could_ do it. But why, when the superior option is nylon?" he reasoned. Not waiting for her fiscally responsible rejoinder, Sherlock added, "Actually, to clarify, nylon for _skin._ Braided silk for neurosurgical stitches. Of course, if you're having vascular surgery, polyester thread is your best bet. Oh! And we haven't even touched on the myriad uses for steel sutures. You know, I wrote a blog on the varying tensile strengths of mono- and multi-filament steel sutures -"

 _"Fiiiiine,"_ she interrupted. "I'll take a taxi. This evening."

"Thank you," he nodded, smug satisfaction forcing his grin wider than necessary. They proceeded to a small, heavily paneled room at the end of the marble corridor. DI Hopkins and DI Dimmock had already arrived.

## * * *

**Time: Reservations at 7:30 pm that same evening.**

Molly emerged from Bond Street station at 7:25 pm. She leaned against the entry, toed off her clogs and slipped into her heels. The seven-minute walk to The Connaught would not float by in comfort, regrettably. But, damn if these shoes didn't make her short legs look runway ready! Navigating in them, however, would cost her three minutes she didn't have to spare.

Mayfair hummed at a respectable level around her. The streets were full of gregarious optimism and people, masses and masses of people; the twin results of spring fever and an impending 3-day bank holiday.

She weaved down Carlos Street, around clumps of asset managers, between ladies who'd long since lunched, and through throngs of tourists. At Grosvenor, she turned right and headed deeper into the quiet heart of London's hyper-lux zone.

Although neighbors, Marylebone's posh predilection still rested several gilt rungs below Mayfair's full-throttle snobbery. Still, easy to envision Sherlock enjoying an afternoon of witty sniping with his brother in either location. Slightly more difficult, however, to image the _rest_ of 221b, and the flat’s well-worn comforts, being welcome below Oxford Street.

But here she was, south of the dividing line, headed to meet the troops and plan a wedding. All in all, her stroll through the land of oligarchs and crown princes, although rushed, proved quite pleasant.

As she crossed Adam's Row, her eyes locked on the evening's ringleader, drawn like a magnet to his head of wild pirate hair.

He stood next to the low, modern water feature in front of the hotel, head bent over his phone. A last gasp of sunshine slanted down the red-bricked canyon of Mount Street. The diffused light halo'd his sable curls and caressed his shoulders. If she wasn't already late, Molly would've ducked out of his sightline, behind a tree or a random Rolls Royce, and just stared at the world's only consulting detective. 

For hours.

His cadet blue suit, which looked as cheery as springtime earlier this afternoon, took on an elegantly moody quality in the fading light. A less sartorial dresser would've shied away from the wool's color, the jacket's slender-notched lapels, and the slim cut of the trousers. 

Sherlock topped everything off with a pale cornflower blue shirt that skimmed his chest like water over rocks.

Shameless.

Molly swung the little paper bag containing her clogs over a shoulder and quickened her pace. She tiptoed across the slate-paved plaza trying to muffle the echoing of her heels. Their light clicking intruded on the hushed. ethereal plume of steam floating across the fountain's smooth surface.  

He addressed her without taking his eyes off his screen. "Let me guess -"

"You never guess," she interrupted.

Sherlock looked up. His cool eyes swept over her, coaxing a blush from her skin; ice and fire left in the brazen wake of his appraisal.

He resumed his monologue. "Your taxi broke down on the way here, forcing you to abandon it and take to the pavement, where, regrettably, you had to skirt the construction on Oxford Street in heels. All this to say,  _that's_ why you're four, no," he checked his phone, " _seven_ minutes late. Because of a faulty cab. Not because you opted for the Tube. Again."

"Hmm...Maybe," she hummed.

He made an exasperated sound and crossed his arms over his chest.

In that moment, the resemblance between elder and younger Holmes brother was unmistakable. Mycroft had two inches and several pounds on his little brother but far less hair. Sherlock had the brighter blue eyes but less masterly control over the emotions hidden behind them. Their mannerisms though pegged them as related on a deep nuclear level. 

Molly was not cowed. "Ohhh, that's _me_ told. C'mon," she laughed. "We're late."

" _We're_ late? We? Are? Late?"

He took pains to annunciate further but she cut him off. "I see married life won't be dull," she smirked. "Fine. You win. I took the Tube. _I_ am late. _I_ made you late. But only initially," she hedged. "If you continue along this line of scolding, then _you_ will make us _later."_

Sherlock sighed and took her hand, wrapping her bones in the gentle warmth of his affection.

"Are we the last to arrive?" she asked.

He avoided making eye contact in favor of trailing kisses along her hairline. 

_"Sherlock."_

"What?!"

"Are we the last to arrive?" she repeated.

"The first," he mumbled. 

## * * * 

They took seats at the bar and waited. With drinks. Like adults.

Sherlock looked every graceful inch the posh gentleman - until the hair. The curls, dark and temperamental, kept the aristocratic vapor that his elder brother wore like perfume from suffocating the incorrigible boy beneath the mop.

She drank him in and slid her blood orange spritzer out of reach. "Certainly blows late night curry in Islington out of the water." Heady notes of bergamot floated on the Champagne bubbles in her glass. They popped and softened the vague social anxiety she felt at being somewhere so lux. Sherlock remained by her side, his attentions bordering on hovering, lest the room or the whole of Mayfair conspire to bully her.

Molly had grown a lot bolder, though, in the years since she'd first asked him for coffee. That initial overture had sailed well over his head. Or so the'd thought. Now he met her invitations - verbal or otherwise - with unabashed pleasure and a fair amount of wonder.

Still, best if she sipped slowly and breathed deeply rather than reach the bottom of the glass quicker than she'd intended. This wasn't trivia night at The Fox after all.

He looked stung. "I thought you liked late night curry in Islington."

"Hmm? No! You know I love it. You've watched me tear through more paratha over the years than I care to admit."

"Like a prisoner scheduled for execution." He winked at her over his tumbler of Oban single malt. 

Molly tried to stifle her grin. Failed. "It's just this. All this," she nodded. The Connaught Bar pulsed around them, a modern, dim leather-and-brass room with a two-hundred-year-old pedigree. "It's lovely. It's amazing. I can't wait for dinner."

"But...?"

"No 'but'," she shrugged. "An 'and' instead."

The gears of his mind spun round trying to follow her train of thought. She put him out of his misery after another sip of her cocktail. "As in, _...and_ places like this make me realize how much I prefer the slanted floors in my flat. And the chipped clawfoot tub in yours. And," she reached for his lapels and pulled him close, "putting on my pyjamas then slipping under old cotton sheets next to you."

Sherlock whispered into her ear. "Oh. I prefer those things too. Except for the pyjamas."

"What? Why? What's wrong with my pyjamas?"

"Nothing. I just prefer them on the floor rather than on you."

They passed the next twenty minutes with heads bent together in deep conversation, hands unable to keep to themselves. The suggestions proposed between them left Molly breathless by the time the rest of their party arrived.

Only Mycroft clearing his throat persuaded the couple to abandon their scheming until after dinner.

Their party crossed the elegant lobby in a ragtag scrum; ducklings trying to figure out which mama to follow. Mycroft certainly had leadership bearing, cultivated from his years at the helm of many a secret mission. But Sherlock had a flair for drama inherent to high-stepping drum majors; hard to take one's eyes off of him. Molly knew because she'd tried to do so, repeatedly, over the years. Failed. Hard.

The brothers jockeyed for position of the lead right up until the last when a clear winner emerged: Mummy Holmes, formidable wrangler of unruly children. She embodied the well-dressed bohemian in her diaphanous silk and long gold chain. And she commanded her troops with one firm yet loving look.

And everyone fell in line behind her.  Impossible not to recognize the mother's influence in the demeanor of her sons, both of whom wisely stood down and let Mummy take control.

Sherlock turned his attention to the paper bag in Molly’s hand. He took it from her and deposited it at the front desk.

“Felix, do you think you might find somewhere to stow this while we’re at dinner?”

“Ah. Certainly, Mr. Holmes.” The concierge took the grease-stained Pret-A-Manger bag with aplomb. “And, does Miss require that her luggage be kept in the hotel safe?”

“Oh. What an excellent question, Felix.” Sherlock pursed his lips in ersatz concern. “Does your luggage require a lock and key, Miss?”

Molly shot him the _you-really-think-you're-all-that-and-a-bag-of-crisps_ look. "Sherlock…”

 _“What?”_ he asked, an expression of genuine cluelessness furrowing his brows.

“Sherlock…!” 

“I don’t — " The full wattage of her meaning made contact with the bulb in his head. “Oh. Oh! You’re not serious,” he asked, incredulous.

“Well… I just... I had nowhere to —“

“A Pret bag, Molly. Really?”

“Well, I was running late and... it just seemed less secure tucking it into my bra and… well, where did you hide _yours?”_ she asked, thrusting her chin at him.

His eyes went wide for a split second. All the earnestness he’d locked away for so much of his life hit her square in the heart. He patted his breast pocket. “Here,” he said, barely above a whisper. “All day. I haven’t even taken my jacket off since this afternoon.”

“Oh,” she replied softly. Molly pressed her palm to his chest. He covered her hand with his own.

“Felix,” she said, not taking her eyes from Sherlock's, “my luggage requires the absolute safest safe The Connaught has on offer.”

“Very good, Miss. The Connaught is happy to oblige.”

Sherlock smiled, bewilderment softening his beautiful eyes and weakening Molly's knees. She went up on tippy toes to kiss him.

Mycroft sighed, overlong and over-loud, from the dining room door. “Whenever the two of you are ready. Molly. Brother mine. We’d like to start pouring the 2009 Deutz.”

## * * * 

“Excellent choice, Molly." Mycroft congratulated her as they sat down. "And kudos to you for getting my brother to don something other than a bedsheet when going out of doors.”

“You have no idea,” she said, sliding into the banquette across from him and Greg.

Used as he was to spearheading schemes, Mycroft had suggested the wedding committee dine at The Diogenes Club. Molly vetoed the location, fearing that it might prove a bit stifling for a group with so many _opinions,_ what with the no talking and all.

She thought Sherlock kidding when he mentioned The Landmark. 

> “What??” he asked. “It’s right around the corner! We can practically roll out the front door and into a table!”
> 
> “Very funny.”
> 
> “What is?”
> 
> “Oh. You’re…you’re serious. You are actually serious?”
> 
> “Yes. Why?”
> 
> “It’s where… you… and John… He and Mary…”
> 
> “What?!”
> 
> “No. Just. No, Sherlock.”

Despite Molly’s initial apprehensions, _Hélène Darroze_  was the perfect backdrop for this important family dinner. The Connaught itself had more than enough lineage - and wood paneling - to suit Mycroft; the restaurant’s service more than enough playfulness to keep Greg & John from feeling out of place. And the entire address remained untouched, as far as she knew, by any of Sherlock’s special brand of shenanigans.

As for the rest of the family, Mummy and Mr. Holmes didn’t seem to notice the sumptuous saffron and gold wing backed chairs or smokey gray velvet banquettes. They were too enamored of each other. And Mrs. Hudson made herself at home anywhere, so long as the Champagne didn’t stop flowing.

Not a chance of that tonight.

"I dunno, just seems kinda 'not right' for a Holmes to do it anywhere other the ol' ancestral pile 'a bricks.” Greg raised a glass to punctuate his position.

They’d moved on to the 2008 Pol Roger by then and even the pint-preferring DI found himself enjoying the pedigreed bubbles.  
   
"Do what, exactly, Graham," Sherlock snickered, relishing his role as little brother at a ‘family’ dinner. Molly kicked his shin under the table. He rewarded her scolding, flattening his wide palm under the hemline of her dress and sliding upward until she could no longer refrain from squirming.

“Oh, my dear,” Mummy Holmes fussed, “I knew you wouldn’t enjoy being squeezed between Sherlock and me. You’ve done nothing but fidget since we sat down, Molly.”

“No worries. I’ll suffer through,” she replied through gritted teeth.

Mummy wouldn’t hear of it. “Nonsense. Too hot in the middle, I should think. I’ll switch places with you before the next course.”

“Oh thank you! What an excellent idea… Ouch!” Molly yipped. The man responsible for things getting too hot had found the thin skin in the crease where her pants and thigh met. And he pinched it.

Mummy side-eyed her future daughter-in-law. Molly relayed the look to the woman’s youngest son who stared, blank-faced, at both of them, the picture of wicked innocence.

Mycroft steered the conversation out of the Sussex countryside faster than he could rig an overseas election. “Absolutely not, Greg. No. The sins of the past and all…”

”He is right, you know," John said, loyally taking any position but Mycroft's. "It’s been, what, twenty-five years?”

“Thirty.” Mr. Holmes’s soft tone spoke volumes of the heartache that had clouded those three decades - and of his optimism for the future.

“See,” A self-satisfied grin had seeped into the hard-won creases around Greg’s mouth.“It would ensure a certain amount of privacy. You know, away from the prying eyes of the… what did you call them, again, Molly?"

“Mmm…? Oh, the, em, the lookie-loos and fangirls.”

Mycroft wouldn’t retreat. “Ah, yes. loos and girls.” He lobbed a patronizing smile in Sherlock’s direction. “Thanks, as ever, Little Brother, to your news making and Dr. Watson's blogging —“

John drained his glass. “Hey, Mycroft. If you're going to drag me into this, the least you could do is ply me with another bottle of this swill.”

The planning committee continued volleying back and forth late into the evening, adjourning to the sumptuous leather club chairs and (even more) wood paneling in the Coburg Bar. As boys sipped on '63 Cockburn’s at the rail, Molly and Mrs. Hudson talked flowers over more Champagne. Lots more.

As the hour got later, tongues got loser. By the time the bar had officially closed for the evening, designs on a Sussex ceremony had been drawn up. Somone plied the bartender with the promise of _extraordinary financial gratitude_ if she'd stay open just a bit longer.

So she did. So they stayed. 

At 1 am, Mummy and Mr. Holmes began saying their goodbyes while Mycroft and Sherlock argued over which car to take them home. The elder had a Jaguar stationed nearby. The younger had a vetted cabbie on speed-dial.

The casual observer often dismissed the Holmes boys as adversaries, not siblings — although Molly had come to realize that the two words were interchangeable. A seven-year age gap between elder and younger placed their common physical features at opposite ends of a generational cohort. The result skewed the deduction.

There could be no doubt, however, as to Sherlock’s parents.

Molly watched him escort his mother and father outside. She tracked the synchronized movement of their limbs, marveled at their full heads of hair, and admired the sea blue eyes of which all three had been blessed. Sherlock was a Holmes from stem to stern.

He came back into the bar and sat down beside her. "Ready to head home?" he asked.

Molly was eager for the next thirty years to begin. Luckily for both of them, they already had.

"I was ready years ago," she whispered.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, yes, we'll get back to that afternoon confab of DIs in Marylebone in the final installment. For those who know the building in question, you may think you know what's happening but you don't _know_ what's happening (I think I'm looking @ you, [ OhAine ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine), if the restaurant convo is any indication). For all those wanting to read more about the ceremony in Sussex, hold tight. As promised, we'll head back to the country shortly. And for those craving some _porn-porn_ as opposed to all this scenery porn... yup: the third installment.
> 
> x


End file.
